


The Extra Chicken Deal

by snark_sniper



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Fried Chicken, I Don't Even Know, M/M, discussion of marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:45:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snark_sniper/pseuds/snark_sniper
Summary: A special promotion at Race's favorite chicken joint prompts a more serious conversation.





	The Extra Chicken Deal

**Author's Note:**

> Last night my favorite tonkatsu restaurant had a special promotion where I could buy three pieces of chicken instead of two. I was really excited because that chicken is delicious but two pieces never felt like enough. Then...I dunno, I guess I wanted to write fic? But I doubt cheap tonkatsu restaurants are as big in New York as they are in Tokyo, so I changed it to good old southern fried chicken. You can think of it as KFC if you want.
> 
> A lot of fics focus on marriage proposals, but I think we deserve to see as many fics that settle the question of "are we getting married" without focusing on the proposal's when/where. That conversation shows a lot about the couple's emotional maturity, and in my opinion, that's equally worth shipping.
> 
> Shoutout to crystallizedtwilight, who made up headcanons for Race's and Spot's jobs and first meeting so I didn't have to.

“Oh my god, _yes_. Yes yes _yes_ , I am so ready for this—”

“Race.”

“Hmm?” His mouth is already full of meat. Spot thinks he’s drooling.

“It’s chicken.”

“So?” Race says between chews. Half the meat is already off the drumstick, and Spot is sure he’ll watch the rest disappear in just a few short seconds. It fascinates him in a morbid sort of way, how much Race is enjoying today’s special promotion.

“So? You’re eating the chicken, not having sex with it.”

“Jealous, Spotty?” Race winks. Per Spot’s prediction, Race tears off the rest of the meat from the bone, which he discards immediately while his spare hand reaches for another piece.

“Honestly? A little. I don’t get it, didn’t they announce this beforehand?”

“If they did, I didn’t hear anything. It’s not like they have a newsletter.”

Spot raises an eyebrow. “If they did, would you subscribe?”

Race scoffs. “Of course. Especially for a deal like this. For a limited time only, buy two pieces, get one free!” He slowly waves his hand as he says it, as if tracing out an invisible headline between them. “And they’re _geniuses_ for making it a surprise.”

“You don’t know it’s a surprise.”

“I know it’s limited time only.” Race waves his second chicken bone at Spot. “Gotta indulge while I can.”

Spot looks down at his own tray. He bought the standard two pieces—they’re big pieces, to be fair—but he won’t deny feeling a tiny rush of pleasure when the cashier double-checked his understanding: “You know you can get three, right? No charge.” He only moderately likes fried chicken, but it’s a good deal. Almost too good to be true.

Race, on the other hand, has ordered no fewer than three two-piece combos. Put another way, he has obtained nine pieces of chicken, so many that Spot can’t make out the placemat on his tray under the baskets. He’s almost certainly going to regret it, but in that Race-style “hashtag worth it” brag that will have Spot secretly smiling as he reaches for the antacids.

His curiosity is flagging. Spot picks up his chicken and takes a bite before it cools and he loses his nerve. It’s good, but…

“It’s nothing special,” he tells Race, who raises both eyebrows.

“You wanna try that again?”

“It’s fried chicken. How good is it supposed to be?”

Race sets down his chicken, and Spot knows he’s in for it—Race is going to need gestures for whatever he says next.

“Spot,” he says with a breathy sigh, “this goes beyond fried chicken. Imagine, if you will, the most comforting thing imaginable.”

Spot blinks when he realizes Race is actually pausing to let him come up with it. _In bed with Race raining warm blankets nap_ flits through his head. He nods for Race to go on.

“Now imagine it in food form.”

“What if the thing I thought of was food?”

“Knowing you, it was probably protein powder, and thank god I’m here to save you from yourself.” Race winks at him as if to reassure him that he knows Spot is more complex than that. Spot never doubted that, but he still frowns minutely. He wonders if Race knows what he was actually thinking. He thinks he does, but now he's not sure.

Race takes the frown as an invitation to elaborate. “See, this ain’t the first time I’ve been here,” he says, gesturing around at the kitschy red and white décor of the joint. “I know you CUNY folk don’t hang out much with us NYU kids, but this is where we, and particularly I, spent a lot of _really_ late nights. Sometimes to study, sometimes for wrap parties, sometimes just because we were too drunk to go home.”

“You, drunk?” Spot can’t help but smirk. Race is a bartender; it’s how they met, with Spot’s friends pushing him towards the beanpole whose smiles went a bit beyond good service. Spot’s seen him drunk, but nowhere near the plastered levels he hears about from Race’s circle of friends.

“Don’t you wonder where all the legends come from?” Race laughs along with him. “Yeah, the nights of my youth usually ended right here. Sometimes at this table.”

“So it’s not just the chicken, then.”

“No, it’s definitely partially the chicken. This stuff soaks up alcohol like a sponge, or at least drunk me thought so. Enough to get me down the subway steps, anyway.” Race shakes his head. “But also it tastes like home, you know?”

“Sounds like your arteries are already clogged with this stuff.”

“If this is how I go, it’s how I go.” Race flashes his boyfriend a grin and reaches for another piece of chicken. Spot watches him silently, thinking of how Race all but blew up his phone while he wrapped up his last client’s tattoo. Spot had kind of thought Race was in the hospital until he managed to check his messages and scroll through the texts consisting of nothing but exclamation points and excited emojis.

“Imagine,” says Race suddenly, as if the thought he’s been trying to express has finally popped up in his brain, “imagine that suddenly you could get more of something you already wanted. I mean, whatever the reason, happy memories or whatever, I love this stuff. I come here when I’m down or tired or stressed, and I always leave in a better mood because of this chicken. Why _wouldn’t_ I want more when they’re giving it away for free?

He seems to have finished his thought, because he returns to his meal. Spot takes another bite too, but he’s lost in a different world from his boyfriend. There’s a half-formed thought rolling around in his head, something to do with fried chicken and happy memories and getting more of what you want.

Race’s near orgasmic groaning when he took his first bite of chicken was amusing, but also, in a weird way, Spot can empathize. He feels that blissful relief every day, but he doesn’t get it from food—he feels it when he comes home and Race is there. He doesn’t even have to be conscious. He can be sprawled out on the bed, drooling in his boxer shorts, and Spot will do nothing but drop his shoulders and crawl into bed beside him.

“Race,” he says. Maybe if he starts the sentence, he’ll figure out how to finish it. He’s a lot better at cheek kisses and completed chores than he is at actually voicing how Race makes him feel.

“Hmm?”

“I…” Damn it. “You’re my fried chicken.” Spot puts his head in his hand as soon as he says it.

Race sputters out a laugh. Spot looks up at him only to make sure he’s not choking. “Okay,” he says when he’s gotten the worst of the laughter out, “you know you _have_ to elaborate on that one.”

“Never mind,” Spot grumbles.

“No, seriously.” To prove his sincerity, Race pushes his half-full tray to the side of the table and leans on his elbows. “Tell me about my deep-fried beauty.”

“I’m not saying you _are_ fried chicken,” Spot says, still with his head in one hand. When Race doesn’t retort, he dares to look up. “I just…when you have a surprise night off, or. When I come home and you’re on the couch crying at Queer Eye. I like that as much as you like this stuff.” He gestures to the trays with the hand that was once holding his head. “And I’d…definitely take more if I could.”

Hesitantly, his eyes meet Race’s, hoping his boyfriend doesn’t think he’s gone insane for the metaphor. They’ve been dating for a year and a half now, and they’re well past love confessions. But every so often, Race deserves to hear him repeat it in words, even if they’re not exactly the ones he means to say.

Fortunately, Race seems to understand what he’s trying to say. Under the table, his leg extends to rub against Spot’s ankle. Above it, Race’s smile has turned gentle and a bit proud.

“Yeah, well,” he says, “maybe one of these days we can put that option on the table. More of what we already want, and all.”

Spot is still for a second. Then his shoulders jolt in a sudden laugh, and he examines Race to confirm he’s hearing right.

“Make it good, Conlon,” Race says teasingly. He leans back against the booth, but his ankle hasn’t left Spot’s. “I ain’t gonna be proposed to in a chicken joint.”


End file.
